Dance
by Magical Shovel
Summary: In the midst of brewing chaos, the great artist Sander Cohen resided within his domain. A dance is shared after a late night on the stage. She is beauty, the epitome of art. He the mere artist watches. She is not his taste and never will be.


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing for I am a broke college student that decided to choose Rapture.

**A/N: **Behold! I am alive. I breathe. I live. I study. That was very detailed, no? I've been dabbling in the Bioshock fandom recently. Most of the stuff, I'll post on my muses accounts. Stuff being little fics and audio diaries that I've been writing. So, I apologize for my inactivity and thank-you all for reading.

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><p>Poseidon engulfed Rapture, showing no mercy. A cerulean sea caressed glass, steel, and chrome. Neon propaganda served as the city's artificial life. A school of fish propel their silver bodies through the frigid sea.<p>

Rapture was very much alive that evening, but who could possibly gauge time when the sun could never caress the deep unknown?

The city's denizens had already resorted to the wonder drug, ADAM. There was nothing like genetic altercation that led to the once rigorous road to perfection. Addiction surged through their veins. Already, their minds began to deteriorate, becoming nothing but mindless fools.

In the midst of brewing chaos, the great artist Sander Cohen resided within his domain.

Fort Frolic was a spectacle to behold. It was flamboyant, luring in those in need of companionship and entertainment.

The artist strived to do just that.

He seduced the audience with a jaunty tune. He painted beauty with a growing hint of macabre. He left them mesmerized by his ceaseless talent. It was no wonder why Andrew Ryan had personally chosen him.

The evening had proved to be successful. Cohen threw a play that was worthy of Broadway (in his humble opinion). Flamboyant costumes, dancing, and singing made the night. Why, even Ryan decided to grace the theater with his authoritative presence.

During the after show, Sander indulged himself on a heady mixture of absinthe and champagne. His head swam, but he brushed it off with a coy smile and a chortle.

Mascara ran from his eyes. Rouge tinted his lips. In the crowd, a woman hid like a predator amongst prey. She was a delightful young thing. Pretty, but not his taste. Her smile was all teeth. Deadly and cunning she beckoned to him with a crook of her finger. Curled, ebony locks caressed her rigid shoulders. Craving attention, he approached her. Was he the moth and she the flame?

This garish beauty teased him with her voluptuous form. Admiration and envy burned in his core. She _was _art. He the mere spectator. She enticed Sander by pulling him close. Her arms fell limp in his wiry frame.

Fingers splayed and intertwined, forming a vice-like grip.

Ruby lips pulled back into a grin. Her feminine laughter echoed in his mind. Mocking, condescending. A gremlin drilling bile into his brain.

Bitterness washed over him like a wave.

She irritated him.

He continued the charade.

Spidery legs overlapped with ones that revealed far too much skin. The tails of his tuxedo swayed with the ministrations of their dance. Her emerald dress clung like a serpent that wrapped its body around a feeble mouse. Crimson nails pricked his hands. He could feel the life ooze out of him.

Yet, none of it was rule.

Merely an illusion to toy with a deluded mind.

Sander Cohen killed a woman in the name of art.

Indeed, she had beckoned to him after the show with a yearning gaze. He regarded her quite impassively. He curled his lip with a sneer. Her appearance to Anna Culpepper was uncanny.

_That musical gremlin._

A hiss.

Slender hands wrapped around her neck, squeezing and suffocating. Gagging, she dug her nails into his hands, his wrists. They were tiny razor blades, nicking his powdered flesh. Sander grunted as his thinning hair fell in disarray.

His charcoal bowtie hung loosely from his neck, jacket barely clinging to his shoulders. His curled moustache bounced his fury.

Russet-colored orbs bulged from the sockets. Thin veins popped in protest. Her tongue was a heavy sponge in her mouth. The pale skin of her neck was littered with the impressions of Cohen's dainty fingers. Shades of indigo adorned her flesh like flashy jewelry.

A strangled scream.

Her life gave out.

Cohen dropped her body with a hollow thud.

He felt nothing.

His shoulders sagged. The Green Fairy whispered to him in another language. Pure gibberish. He shook it off and staggered backwards.

Pensively, Sander stroked his chin and peered at the corpse. Her limps rested at a distorted angle. Ebony locks resembled a halo. Dead eyes peered at the ceiling. Her swollen tongue parted her ruby lips.

She was the epitome of beauty.

Fingers snapped together as inspiration struck. If only he had a camera! She was astounding, magnificent, stunning. She deserved to have men slave to sculpt her face in marble. Not his taste. Not his fancy, but it was _art._

In fact, it was the beginning of a change in his style.


End file.
